


Trust Your Mind (It's All You Have)

by RetroactiveCon



Series: Praying That It'll Be You [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Past Hartley Rathaway/Eobard Thawne | Harrison Wells
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-03
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:34:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21653821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RetroactiveCon/pseuds/RetroactiveCon
Summary: “You shot me,” he gasps.Wells kneels down and cups a hand against Hartley’s cheek. “Oh, Hartley. I don’t want to kill you. But you would have killed me…it’s only self-defense.”The cool muzzle of a gun presses against Hartley’s temple. Wells stops and presses a kiss to his brow, his lips a warm counterpoint to the icy metal. “I loved your mind, Hartley,” he says. “A shame I can’t preserve it.”
Series: Praying That It'll Be You [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1562548
Comments: 6
Kudos: 90





	Trust Your Mind (It's All You Have)

**Author's Note:**

> This disaster of a fic was inspired by the scene in 1.11 where EoWells takes out a gun after Hartley calls him. I firmly believe he would have shot him - Hartley knew too much - so this happened.

Hartley takes aim at Wells’ glass roof. Through the window, he can see Wells—not in his wheelchair but standing, walking around. _Liar._ His lips peel back from his teeth. Wells, who inflicted so much pain on Central City, has lied for months about the effect his mistake had on him. Not only did he devastate the city, he hasn’t been made to pay for it. This more than anything is why Hartley fires.

The crash of glass splintering and falling jangles Hartley’s nerves. Even with his cochlear implants lessening his enhanced hearing, it echoes painfully in his ears. For the space of two breaths, he’s disoriented. This is the only way he can possibly miss Wells slipping out the side door. 

“Hartley.” Wells’ voice is steady and calming, the way it always is. Hartley relaxes without wanting to. It’s been a year since Wells last spoke to him, and yet he falls under his spell as easily as he had at seventeen. “I know why you’re angry.”

“It’s much too late for apologies.” Hartley wants to raise his arms and take aim, but he can’t. Killing Wells from a distance was one thing, but he hasn’t got the strength to look him in the eye and blast him to pieces. 

“I know.” Wells smiles that beautiful crooked smile that Hartley had so loved to kiss. “But I am sorry.” 

This is Hartley’s only warning before pain sears his chest. He cries out and falls back on the grass, clasping a gauntleted hand to the epicenter of the pain. It comes away wet with blood. 

“You shot me,” he gasps. 

Wells kneels down and cups a hand against Hartley’s cheek. “Oh, Hartley. I don’t want to kill you. But you would have killed me…it’s only self-defense.” 

The cool muzzle of a gun presses against Hartley’s temple. Wells stops and presses a kiss to his brow, his lips a warm counterpoint to the icy metal. “I loved your mind, Hartley,” he says. “A shame I can’t preserve it.” 

The muzzle slips down so that it rests to the left of his sternum. He scrabbles at his gauntlet, trying to change the sound setting without Wells noticing. There’s one more thing he can try. It will render Wells unconscious, and Hartley with him; his only hope would be the authorities (or Wells’ pet Flash) arriving before either of them can wake. A desperate gamble, to be sure, but his last chance. 

“Goodbye, Hartley,” Wells whispers 

Hartley jams his thumb against a button. The air fills with a high-pitched, pulsing sound that tangles itself with every atom of Hartley’s being. His cochlear implant has no chance of blocking out this frequency; it’s designed to be inescapable. He screams once, loudly, and loses consciousness.

***

Hartley wakes up. Belatedly, he realizes how hopeless his final gambit had been; he’s surprised to have woken at all.

When he opens his eyes, he can see only blurred shapes. After several vigorous blinks, the blurry shapes resolve into a blocky blue wall. He blinks again. This is an antiproton cavity. Why is he in the particle accelerator?

“Hartley.” 

_Oh._ He pushes himself up and props himself against the wall. In front of him, a sheet of glass separates him from Wells, who has returned to his wheelchair, Cisco Ramon, Caitlin Snow, and the Flash. This is confirmation of what Hartley has suspected for months. It also means that Wells has a particularly dangerous pet. 

“Oh.” Hartley tilts his head back and just laughs. Wells tilts his head; Cisco scowls. “Ohh, they don’t know, do they? You may have let them bring me in, but you won’t have told them why I hunted you down.” 

“You think we’re going to believe you?” Cisco scoffs. To the Flash, he explains, “We used to work with this jerk. He was completely insufferable, but I gotta say, I didn’t foresee him blasting in Dr. Wells’ roof.” 

The Flash cocks his head. Unlike Cisco and Caitlin, he’s not staring at Hartley with undisguised disdain; he’s simply curious. (It’s a good look on him. Hartley might loathe him for being Wells’ new pet, but he has to admit that he’s got a pretty face, what little of it shows through that mask.) “Don’t know what?” 

Hartley laughs. If he’s got the Flash’s attention, he’s already won. Wells knows it, too; the flash of fear in his eyes confirms it. “Do you want to tell them, Harrison, or should I?” 

Wells lays a gentle hand against the Flash’s arm. Hartley seethes. “Can you give us a minute?” 

“Sure.” The Flash beckons Caitlin and Cisco down a ramp and into the hallway. “We won’t be far.”

Hartley watches them go. “They really don’t know,” he marvels. Speaking sends pain radiating through his chest; he braces a hand against his side to make it stop. His fingers brush rough cloth. When he looks down, he’s naked from the waist up, save for bandages winding around his chest. “It seems my low opinion of Cisco is well-deserved. Did no one else notice that your accelerator was doomed to fail from the beginning?” 

“Cisco had faith in me.” Wells rolls closer to the glass, peering at Hartley as though he’s an interesting specimen under a microscope. “I wish you had been able to do the same.” 

“I did!” Hartley snaps. Pain shoots through him, so intense that it steals his breath and blacks his vision. When he comes to, he’s fallen back against the wall. “I had faith that you would do the right thing. Evidently it was misplaced.” 

“I did what I thought was best for Central City.” Wells shakes his head, his expression mildly annoyed as though Hartley is a student who’s not quite grasping a simple concept. Hartley scowls. 

“No, you didn’t, and I don’t know why. I said I would take responsibility—your reputation would have withstood the blow. And you locked me up. You didn’t just threaten me and let me go, you _locked me up.”_ Hartley stifles a shudder. He spent somewhere between two and three months locked in a room below STARLabs, screaming for help until his voice gave out. “That went beyond ego, Harrison. I’d almost think you _wanted_ the accelerator to explode.” 

“Hartley.” Wells shakes his head. He still looks every bit the eternally patient teacher. In contrast, Hartley feels like a child throwing a tantrum. “I know you’re angry, but you’re confused. I never locked you up.” 

“Don’t you dare.” Through the last hellish year, Hartley’s sole reassurance has been his mind. Wells took his job, his freedom, and his hearing, but he couldn’t take Hartley’s mind. “Don’t you dare tell me I imagined…”

Wells looks grieved. “The particle accelerator affected people in ways we’re only just beginning to understand. Is it so hard to believe it might have altered your memories?” 

“No!” Hartley presses his hands to his head. He didn’t hallucinate those weeks locked under the accelerator. He _didn’t._ He won’t let Wells make him doubt himself. (But, oh God, is it tempting. If he imagined it, if he’s wrong, then his hatred toward Wells might be misplaced. They could go back to the way they were before, and…) “No! I know what you did to me, and your mind games won’t change that.” 

“Oh, Hartley.” Wells presses a hand against the glass. “I don’t want to keep you locked up, but it’s for your own safety. Imagine what might have happened if you’d attacked someone less forgiving.”

“You shot me!” Hartley gestures at his chest. Pain bursts outward from the wound, and he holds himself rigid and immobile until it subsides. 

“Only to wound, and I’m sorry.” Wells’ expression is soft and sincere. Hartley wants to believe him so much that it feels like a physical ache, but he can’t. He has to trust his own mind—it’s all he has left.  
“You were going to shoot me in the head.” 

Wells makes a sound as though Hartley’s accusation knocks the wind out of him. “I never would,” he insists. “I wish you believed me.” 

“You’re lying,” Hartley hisses. “Like you lied about the design of the particle accelerator, like you’re lying about needing that wheelchair. I can see it. How long until your precious pet Flash figures it out, too?” 

Wells rolls back from the glass. His eyes never leave Hartley’s, as though he thinks he can hypnotize him into believing his numerous lies. “I’ll do everything I can for you, Hartley. You’re still my guy. You’re confused, but you’re still my guy.” 

Hartley feels seventeen again, looking at Wells across their first game of chess and hearing him say with such affection, “Well, then, Hartley, it sounds like you’re my guy.” He hates Wells and his smile and his kind, keen eyes, and he hates himself because he never stopped loving him, not truly. He wants to retort that he’s not Wells’ ‘guy,’ not anymore, but he can’t bring himself to say the words. 

Then Wells is gone, and he’s alone. _Again._ He emphasizes this to himself because he refuses to believe that his first imprisonment below STARLabs is a false memory. Admittedly, he’d spent the greater part of it blindfolded…and admittedly, he doesn’t have any marks to prove to himself that it happened…but he won’t let Wells make him doubt himself. He won’t. 

After an hour, his resolve is broken. He keeps replaying every memory Wells had called false, each time feeling less and less certain it ever happened. It’s entirely possible that the frequency he’d employed to disable Wells caused him to misremember the events immediately previous. He’s been subjected to it some half a dozen times (building his gauntlets involved rather too much trial and error) and never hallucinated before, but that doesn’t make it impossible. In a high stress situation, and with a fresh gunshot wound…small wonder he might have misremembered. Furthermore, if what Wells said about the particle accelerator giving him false memories is true, he may be predisposed…

“No,” he snaps. “No, I’m not, because if I let myself think that, I’ll never be able to trust myself again.” 

“What do you mean?”

Hartley jumps. There’s a pretty boy standing shyly in front of the door—mid-twenties, sharp-faced, with gentle, inquisitive jade-green eyes. He’s holding a plate like a peace offering. 

“Who are you?” Hartley demands. He curls in on himself, drawing his legs up to protect his vulnerable torso and using his arms to cover the gunshot wound. The young man kneels down outside the door, setting the plate on the floor and holding out one hand as though Hartley is an injured animal. 

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmurs. “My name’s Barry—Barry Allen. I’m a forensics analyst with the CCPD. Dr. Wells called me in to consult on a metahuman case, and then I heard STARLabs had a new prisoner.” He smiles, genuine and unguarded. “What’s your name?” 

Hartley wants him to leave. There’s no need for him to linger, pitying the boy caught on the wrong side of the glass with the questionable memories and the terrible past. But oh, it’s been years since anyone smiled at him like that. “I was thinking of calling myself Pied Piper,” he snaps. “Since apparently I’m supervillain enough to warrant the involvement of the Flash.”

Barry tilts his head. “Cisco’s not going to like that,” he warns. “He assigns the cool names.” 

“Well, if giving myself a name irks Mr. Ramon, then yes. I’m Pied Piper.” 

Barry nudges the plate. Hartley wasn’t aware of staring at it, but the sudden movement makes him jump. “Are you hungry?”

“No.” Yes. He curses his pride the moment he answers. Even if he wasn’t hungry, he wouldn’t pass up a meal—he’s gone hungry too often to trust that he’ll be fed regularly. The last thing he wants is to have to beg later because he couldn’t make a simple request now, but he’s too stubborn to change his mind. 

Thankfully, Barry seems to have anticipated that he might be uncooperative. “All right. Well, I’m going to give this to you anyway in case you get hungry later.” 

Hartley watches warily while Barry opens the door and sets the plate on the floor of the cell. For one foolish moment, he considers escape—Barry looks slight enough that he would be easy to overcome, even given Hartley’s wound. He dismisses the idea before the plate touches the floor. He might be able to overpower Barry, but he would never make it out of the accelerator—no doubt Wells has put him far away from any exits to forestall just such an endeavor. This time, rather than let him escape, Wells might shoot to kill. 

“Barry.” 

The door closes with a pneumatic hiss. Barry kneels down again, giving Hartley a little encouraging smile. “Yeah?” He’s positively saccharine, so sweet it’s almost sickening. Hartley can’t help feeling a flash of pity for him. As guileless and hopeful as he is, he must be utterly oblivious to all the ways he’s being used. 

“Do you trust Harrison Wells?” 

Barry tilts his head. His pretty green eyes soften—oh, no. Hartley chokes on fury and pity. “With my life.” 

“You love him,” Hartley spits. Barry flinches. It’s the innocence in his eyes that soothes Hartley’s wrath. Wells hadn’t left him innocent for long—he’d introduced Hartley to darker and more dangerous games until he got addicted to the rush. Hartley had been just naïve enough not to question what he was doing. If Barry has thus far escaped that fate, it’s Hartley’s job to warn him. “You shouldn’t. He’ll take you and break you and turn you into me.” 

Barry shakes his head. “He said the particle accelerator altered your memories.” 

Hartley hisses through his teeth. It’s one thing for Wells to make him doubt his own mind, but to make everyone else doubt him, too? How they must be _reveling_ in it, particularly Cisco—poor, proud, deluded Hartley Rathaway has finally lost his marbles. He wants to make Wells suffer for this, but he wonders as the thought crosses his mind whether it’s symptomatic of the very delusion Wells believes him to be suffering. “I’m hardly the person to ask, am I, if nothing I say can be trusted?” 

Barry makes an expression that’s practically a pout. He really is beautiful, Hartley muses; Wells would want to take his time and ruin this darling boy slowly. “What did he do to you?”

Hartley debates. He could tell this sweet boy about the weeks he’d spent locked below STARLabs, blindfolded and bound, utterly alone save Wells’ infrequent visits. He could try to describe what the explosion did to him, how he’d woken up half-buried in rubble with an unutterably painful screaming in his ears. He could recount how Wells pressed a gun to his head, kissed him, and said it would be self-defense to kill him as he lay bleeding on the ground. Instead, he says, “I warned him about what the particle accelerator could do. You’ll have to ask him what happened next.” 

Barry’s eyes widen. “You mean you predicted the explosion?” 

Hartley smiles. _Victory._ Wells can shake people’s confidence in his memory, but he can’t silence what’s based in science. “I ran the numbers again and again and again. When I finally confided in him…well, as you can tell, he didn’t listen to me. What _exactly_ he did, that’s for him to tell. You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” 

Barry skitters to his feet. He looks genuinely shaken, although Hartley can’t fathom why. Did he lose someone in the explosion, perhaps? “Um, enjoy your sandwich,” he blurts. He presses a shaking hand to a panel, and a circular plate of metal slides down between him and Hartley. Before it closes all the way, he glimpses Barry’s hurried stumble down the ramp. As much as he hopes Barry’s curiosity will rattle Wells, he knows it won’t; Wells is too cunning and Barry, like Hartley once was, is too infatuated. Wells will manipulate him until he’s gotten what he wants (whatever that may be) and then Barry, like Hartley, will be tossed aside.

Hartley scoffs aloud. Perhaps one day he’ll have company in this cell, and they’ll play ‘Real or Not Real’ while they try to figure out which of their memories can be trusted. For now, he’s alone. His assets are a paper plate, a sandwich, and two potentially explosive cochlear implants. His detriments: a questionably-bandaged gunshot wound, an unknown distance between him and a way out of the accelerator, and the fact that Wells is allied with the fastest man in Central City. 

Most importantly, despite what Harrison Wells may want him to believe, Hartley still has his mind. That alone will see him safely out of this cell, no matter how long it takes.


End file.
